


It Droppeth as the Gentle Rain from Heaven

by QueenMaria



Series: Grey-Dawn [7]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aneira follows Julianos, But Stendarr is pretty great, Diplomacy, Gen, Grieving Widow, Skyrim Civil War, The Quality of Mercy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 00:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenMaria/pseuds/QueenMaria
Summary: "The quality of mercy is not strained."William Shakespeare





	It Droppeth as the Gentle Rain from Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Whiterun has been defended, and the Stormcloaks beaten back. Now, the Dragonborn would like to try a different tactic to bring the Bear down.

“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.”   
― [ **Sun Tzu**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1771.Sun_Tzu), [ **The Art of War**](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3200649)

 

Rikke nodded slightly as she read, hands braced powerfully over the wooden table so that she hovered above the pieces of paper.

Tullius had read the draft without inflection or expression, holding it aloft with one hand while he slowly paced around the table.

Aneira watched them both now, her own copy of the letter on the end table beside her.  After Tullius had given her his approval to start, it had taken half a day and the assistance of several Nords and non-Nords alike to create the draft now before the General and Legate.

Finally, Rikke straightened, pushing away from the table so that she could turn to her superior.

“It’s well written,” the older woman began promptly.  “From my perspective, there’s nothing in it that might offend the Nords.”  She turned to Aneira.  “I particularly liked the bit about their families needing them alive more than Ulfric needing them to die for his cause.  A healthy dose of guilt to go along with the appeal to their sense of honor.”

“Hmm.”

That was all Tullius gave at first, pacing back to where the three pages lay spread out on the dark oak.  “And what about offending the loyal citizens that didn’t run off to join a band of rebels?”

Aneira kept her expression cool, waiting to hear what Rikke might say.

“There’s potential for some bitterness, especially among the non-Nords,” she admitted, watching her commander as he pushed one of the pages forward.  “That’s probably unavoidable, with this kind of tactic.  But,” she added, nodding in the Dragonborn’s direction, “it should be minimal.  There’s enough neutrality to keep the worst resentment down.”

“But is there enough impetus that any rebels will actually lay down their arms and go home?”  Tullius pointed at one passage on the second page.  “This sounds more like begging than an order.”

“It’s _not_ an order, General,” Aneira spoke quietly, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall.  “It’s an offer of clemency.  The Stormcloaks aren’t going to listen to demands, even if I am Dragonborn.  If that had been enough, the rebellion would’ve lost its army the day I joined the Legion.”

“So, we’re just going to ask nicely and hope a few of them listen?  Do you know how easily Ulfric can turn this against us?  All he has to do is say it’s an act of desperation.  That we’re begging the Stormcloaks to stop because we can’t defeat them on our own.”

“He could do that,” Aneira agreed.  She pushed off the stones to stand beside them at the table.  “But there will always be those who cannot see the difference between compassion and weakness.”  She gestured to the first page, the one that had been the hardest to begin.  “We’re not going to change the minds of the hateful.  If they really only want ‘Skyrim for the Nords,’ then reasoning with them will be fruitless.  But there are others,” she said firmly, standing straight while Tullius’s lips curled in distaste, “that don’t feel that way.  They joined because their families were persecuted, or because they think the Empire has abandoned them.  And the only way to turn them around is to _promise_ them,” Aneira emphasized, letting her knuckles rest on the table, “that they won’t be punished if they go home now.  And to remind them that the Empire is capable of empathy.”

Tullius grunted again, picking up the second page.  “And you think they’ll heed your warning?”

Aneira pressed her lips together tightly, not bothering to try to conceal her own uncertainty.  “There’s no guarantee in this,” she answered softly.  “I can only try.  Whiterun has shaken the Stormcloaks.  Ulfric promised them all a victory.  I know the eastern holds thought he would take the city with ease.  The eyes of the country were on that battle, and we pushed them back.  With the death toll as devastating as it was for the Stormcloaks, at least _some_ of them must be questioning what’s happened.”  The young woman jerked her head at the missive, knowing she was paraphrasing her own words within it.  “We have to extend our hand now, while Ulfric looks weak.  It’s our best chance to get the rest to turn away from him.”

“And if a few of those on the fence fall onto our side, more may follow.”  Rikke came to stand beside Aneira, letting her steel-clad fingers rest beside hers on the table.  “Already we’ve received reports that since Whiterun, no men or women have joined Ulfric.  Sending this out to the holds won’t stop the rebellion,” the Legate cajoled, “but it might help save lives that could otherwise be spent in service to the Empire, General.”

Back and forth they went, defending and editing Aneira’s letter until at last all three were satisfied.  The document was kept down to a neat two and a half pages, leaving ample room on the third for Aneira’s looping signature.

Captain Aldis read through it twice while Falk took three turns, each approving and eager to have their scribes begin to make the copies.

It surprised no one involved that it was Jarl Elisif the Fair, to Aneira’s pity and dismay, who tearfully tried to protest.

“What is this?” Holding the pages in both hands, Elisif’s face morphed in disbelief.  “What does this mean?  Why is the Dragonborn telling the rebels they’ll be pardoned?”

Falk cleared his throat, ready to speak first as planned.  “Technically, my Jarl, we’re not going to pardon them.  We just aren’t going to formally charge them with any treason.  That way they might-”

“Why in the name of all the gods would we do that?”  Color crept into Elisif’s cheeks, despite her earnest attempt to appear calm and collected.

“My Jarl, the letter is to get some of Ulfric’s men to stand down and go back home,” Falk continued, gesturing to the pages.  “As you read, we’re hoping with enough incentive they won’t be afraid to go back to their families and-”

“They left their families to follow that murderer!” The young Jarl cried, trying very hard to cover up the tremor in her voice as she tossed the drafted pages to the ground.  Aneira privately congratulated herself, Tullius, and Falk for encouraging Elisif to give them this audience in her private chambers, rather than before the whole court.  “They’ve been killing and raiding and- and pillaging for him!”  Aneira winced, heart aching for the still grieving widow even as she remained fixed in her resolve.  “They can’t just go back home and pretend they didn’t do anything wrong!”  Elisif’s right hand gripped one panel of her dark four-poster bed, nails digging into the wood.  

Falk took a half step forward, mouth parting to inhale and speak.

“No!” His jarl cut him off.  “No, I won’t allow it!  They should all be thrown in the dungeons! Or executed!”

“Jarl Elisif,” Tullius began, moderately more patient with Elisif than he was with anyone else, “we’re trying to end this rebellion, not prolong it.”

“So, we reward those traitors?”  The first tear broke from her crystal blue eyes, followed quickly by another.

“Elisif, you’re not looking at this logically.  The longer the war drags on, the more men and women we lose fighting it.  The more food, the more supplies, the more gold.  The quicker we can put this whole thing down, the better.” Tullius’s voice was unyielding, even in his attempts at persuasion. Aneira was grateful when Falk spoke next.

“And we don’t intend to reward them, my Jarl,” Falk broke in softly.  His voice was tempered, gentle in the face of his Jarl’s pain.  “There will be no accolades or special treatment.  They won’t be welcomed back like we would Imperial soldiers.  Any rebel who chooses to leave Ulfric’s side will only be allowed to go back to his home and trade.  Any losses he suffered will be his alone to bear.”

Elisif’s mouth twisted as she listened, a shaking exhale all she gave for a moment before she found her voice again.

“You would give quarter to my husband’s killer and his cronies?”  Her left hand crept up to press against her breastbone, mouth grimacing.  “You would have me pardon the men that took my son’s father from him before he drew his first breath?”

Taking a deep breath, Aneira met Elisif’s eyes when she turned to her.  The grief on her face was terrible and made Aneira’s own eyes prickle in sympathy.  She couldn’t help but linger on the memory of the very young Torvald, red-hair and blue eyes in his father’s face, from what Aneira remembered of him in Sovngarde. The little one currently rested in the arms of one of his caretakers in a different part of the palace.  It would do the babe no good to see his mother so distressed.

“How can you ask this of me?”  The similarly red-haired Jarl wailed, letting her weight begin to sag against the poster, hand shifting so that her right arm wound around it.

Aneira moved forward then, letting her arms open so that the young mother could collapse into them.  Elisif’s fists beat lightly against the sides of Aneira’s collarbones, and the Dragonborn was grateful she wasn’t wearing any armor that would hurt her hands.  Lifting her arms, she wrapped Elisif in a tight embrace as she began to cry weakly against her shoulder.

“I can’t, I can’t, Dragonborn.”  The woman sniffed.  “Don’t ask me to do this.  Aneira. Don’t tell me I must _forgive_ him.”

“You don’t,” Aneira answered calmly, rubbing her right hand up and down Elisif’s shaking back.  “No one is asking you to forgive Ulfric.  He will not walk away from this war, I’m certain of that.  Even should all his armies leave him, Ulfric will fight.  And even if he did surrender, this communiqué is not for his benefit.”  She pressed a kiss to the trembling young woman’s temple.  “We’re only asking you to show mercy to the men and women of Haafingar who were misled by him, and let them go back to their homes.  We know,” Aneira said quickly, tightening her grip as Elisif tensed, “that such a thing galls you.  But mercy,” she added softly, “is one of the greatest qualities to possess.  And if you extend your hand now, you will teach your son from infancy that not all conflicts need to end with bloodshed.”  Pausing, Aneira considered whether to add this last piece.  It could enrage Elisif at the comparison, but the Dragonborn felt it needed to be said.  “That’s something Ulfric didn’t consider, when he came to Solitude that day.”

Elisif did not pull away from Aneira’s warm embrace, though she screamed another sob against her.  It continued for some time, pressing her rage and grief against the Dragonborn’s left shoulder until she stilled with a low moan.

“Do you promise me?” Elisif looked up, moving back from Aneira’s body until she could clutch both of Aneira’s hands between her own.  “Do you promise me that Ulfric will die?”

The Bruma native lurched internally, wondering if she could promise such a thing right now.  A thousand possibilities ran through her mind of what might happen to Ulfric, each entirely dependent on how the rest of this wretched war was fought.  The Bear might be captured and imprisoned for the rest of his days, leaving him weak and his Stormcloaks without a martyr to inflame their passions.  He might escape and go into hiding, might find sanctuary in another country that sympathized with his hatred for the Empire.

Blue eyes blinking rapidly, Elisif blanched at Aneira’s hesitation.  “I cannot raise my son in a country where his father’s murderer lives.  I can’t.  I _won’t_.”  She shook her head slightly.  “How could I ever look him in the eye and explain that kind of injustice?”

A moment of silence passed before Aneira looked to Tullius.  The man had been staring fixedly at Elisif, mouth tugged into a frown, but he met Aneira’s eyes.  The General nodded twice, just slightly, but enough for Aneira to inhale deeply and give Elisif the peace of mind she needed.

“I swear that Ulfric will be put to death, be it by the sword or the headsman’s axe.”

The Fair and the Dragonborn held each other’s eyes for some time, hands still clasped together, before the younger swallowed and nodded heavily, releasing Aneira’s hand to move toward her bed.

“Send them out,” she muttered forlornly, looking like she might collapse onto the mattress at any moment.  “Haafingar will honor it.”

Tullius bowed, giving Elisif a polite goodbye before striding out of the room, Falk collecting the pages to follow behind in the same manner.

When only Aneira lingered, pity slowing her steps as she moved toward the door, she watched as Elisif sat heavily on the edge of her bed.

“I’ll tell one of the chambermaids to come attend to you, alright, my Jarl?”  Aneira put her hand on the knob, wishing she could do more but desperate to join Tullius at his Castle to prepare everything.  “And I’ll tell them to bring Torvald back.”

“Yes,” Elisif muttered, running her hands shakily over her face.  “Yes, thank you.”

The Dragonborn left, doing as she promised, before speedily heading to Castle Dour.

“Jarl Igmund has already agreed to this, right?” Tullius asked dryly as soon as Aneira walked inside. The General was leaning over his map again, as was usually the case when Aneira came to see him. “Considering he’s been Elisif’s dinner guest since you had me hand over Markarth at the negotiating table, I assumed he would want this insanity settled as quickly as we do.”

“He’s agreed, though bitter,” Aneira replied, moving to join Falk with the copies of the letter.  “But he wants his hold restored to him too badly to kick up much of a fuss at this rate.  Idgrod agreed to everything when I spoke with her before coming here.  That alone gives me confidence in this plan.”  Aneira kept to herself the way the elderly Jarl had gazed past her, dark eyes sharp and calculating, before giving her approval.

“And Balgruuf?” Tullius lifted himself from the table, walking toward his usual bottle of brandy.

“Full support,” Aneira nodded, smiling a little at the memory.  “Some prominent citizens in Whiterun hold sympathize with the Stormcloaks, as you might remember.”  Tullius hummed, no doubt preferring _not_ to think about Aneira’s slaughter at Northwatch Keep in the name of Thorald Gray-Mane.  “He’s more than happy to show leniency, if it will reunite families and friends long separated by this conflict.”

“Siddgeir already knows as well. Once we take the rest of the holds back, the new Jarls will have to be instructed on how to handle this,” Tullius said, uncorking a bottle and pouring two glasses.  “If it even works, that is.”

“Truly, I believe it will,” Aneira said back, voice firm with conviction. “My title still carries weight, and the Nords that remember the tales of the Dragonborn won't turn away from such a promise lightly.”

Tullius scowled, just a little, as he handed her the goblet. “They turned from their Emperor awfully lightly.”

Aneira tilted her head in his direction, pursing her lips. “They believe their Emperor has forsaken them and taken away their god.”  She clinked their cups together.  “But this is only the beginning.  When everything is over, both will be returned to Skyrim.”

Tullius’s frown deepened, but he accepted her toast and drank.  “Don’t say those things to me.  I’d like to keep my deniability for as long as I can when you bring Aldmeri fury down on us all.”

The Dragonborn smiled as she took a sip, relishing the brandy’s spark in her mouth.

Two days later, a dozen soldiers disguised as couriers left Solitude, each with leather pouches full of thirty copies of the letter that quickly became known as the Dragonborn’s Entreaty.  After little more than a week the letters had reached the farthest corners of the country, from the rocks of the Reach to the snows of Windhelm.  Even the secluded Stormcloak camps, hidden among the hills, received copies that were passed among the blue-clad men and women before their commanders ordered them burned.  But by then, it was far too late to ask those men and women to forget the Dragonborn’s large signature or the strange new dragon-shaped seal set into the red wax on the page.

When Riften fell several weeks later, Stormcloaks routed and driven out of Fort Greenwall, Aneira stopped for the night in Whiterun on her way back to Solitude.  She was walking toward the Gildergreen, hoping to speak with Balgruuf before he retired for the evening, when an unfamiliar sight met her eyes.

Stopping, she did a doubletake in front of the Temple of Kynareth, eyes wide and smile absentminded as she looked at the white-haired family sitting together.

Thorald and Avulstein sat on the cobblestones, each flanking their parents and sister who sat on the wooden bench facing the statute of Talos.  Fralia had a firm grip on Thorald’s hand, holding it in her lap while her husband kept a fist on Avulstein’s shoulder.  Olfina was passing out bottles of wine to her brothers while a basket of bread and cheese sat on her lap.

None of them looked at her as Aneira moved quickly toward the Dragonsreach steps, utterly engaged with each other.  The Dragonborn could not make her lips cooperate as she left the scene, firmly stuck in a giddy smile all the way to the Jarl’s chair.

Based on that moment alone, Aneira would never regret her long letter to the citizens of Skyrim. Should the Gray-Mane brothers be the only ones to return to their families of their own accord, should every other Stormcloak stay to fight, Aneira would always count her entreaty as a success.

If so broken a family could be reunited, there truly was hope for the country yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "The Merchant of Venice."


End file.
